


Unfrozen

by Leblanc1 (orphan_account)



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Leblanc1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows Variations, Ch.2 Frozen: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6882349/chapters/15700888. Used with Laure001's permission. Frozen was beautiful & epic. This is Carrie's perspective. PS I didn't obsess over grammar/punctuation this time. I love Laure001 lyrical use of commas and dashes and have tried to replicate a bit.</p><p>Promptfill for Romantic Wall Sex!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfrozen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laure001](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laure001/gifts).



She knew. When she heard the crunch of the stones behind her, she knew it was Quinn. She stilled, kneeling in place, her hands in the soil and unsure of how to proceed. Her throat seized, heart clenched, a heady realization that everything would soon change.

She had settled into the comfortable grief that he would not come. Why would he? The gulf had been too wide, the years apart too long, the communication too stilted and parched. They had been warriors caught in a maze with no exit, yet incapable of meeting. Everywhere, dead ends.

She'd replayed the conversation in the café in Paris over and over. Why hadn't she said more? Why hadn't he - she - either of them shown their hand, shattered the pretense, confessed the longing, the apologies; why had they not simply said what they wanted? Openly.

But she hadn’t and nor had he.

Her regret, heartbreaking self-loathing, for the omission was unbearable. Perhaps if she had said more he’d have returned to her. If there had ever been a moment to bare one's soul it had been hers, there in that grungy café months and months ago.

Instead, she had simply asked him to come with her, without explanation, without context or assurance that she wanted _him_ , only him, despite her many years of equivocation and confusion and crazy.

So she waited. And waited. As the hours ticked by her hope slowly died and with it came the shattering regret for what might have been, should have been, settled into her marrow. The tears would come later. She'd simply sat there. Alone. Understanding, finally, that this is how it would be; a lonely life. A just punishment, perhaps.

He was so steadfast, so true to his word – always. It's why she stayed in the sad café for those three extra days with the sad smell of second-hand smoke around her, drinking endless espressos. It occurred to her he must have been killed...and she settled upon that conclusion because it was an easier than accepting the rejection; that he had simply chosen not to come back to her.

She'd always known her power over him. When he had boarded the train she hadn’t been surprised. She knew he’d probably follow; she knew that once they found each other again he’d be unable to disconnect from her so easily. She had been so confident that there was more story to be told for them…and she was sure he wanted it too.

But as the hours turned into days in the café she understood, finally, that whatever spell she’d cast on him so many years ago was finally broken. He'd released her, himself. He was gone, dead, or back to war or to Saul. He'd chosen. And it wasn't her.

At the end of the fourth day when she stood to leave the café forever, she had considered leaving word in case he came. She trusted the kind proprietor. But as she sat down to write a note, her hands trembling slightly, she realized it was futile. His message had been delivered by his absence. To hope for something hopeless was something she would not do.

The months passed and she built a life in this sleepy, sweet village. She learned the language and lived for the day when she'd get Frannie back. She read and gardened and suffered quietly; wondering why she had a right to this bereavement for a love that was never realized...a love she'd never allowed to be realized.

During the dark, lonely nights this is what undid her. She came to understand she had let his love go; that it had once been hers for the taking. It was a horrible certitude, realizing that her arrogance, her determination to save a world that was, is, so utterly unsavable made her blind to what was unselfishly offered. She had never, until then, acknowledged how precious it had been. It made her breathless with shame, there in the blackness, lying alone in a bed in this country that was not her own

So when the gravel cracked under the footsteps behind her, Carrie's carefully cultivated sad world tilted on its axis. She didn't believe, anymore, in happy endings. Had she ever?

The flowers in her hands blurred and she fought to gain composure.

She stood and turned. Bathed in the July heat in a simple linen tank dress, sweat and soil streaking her face, she finally looked at him.

She dropped the trowel she'd been holding, amazed at the sight before her. The sun held him; beamed off his face. His eyes were warm, expectant, oddly relaxed, as though he always knew they'd find each other and it would be okay in the end. No coldness, no deflection. Complete presence.

Without saying a word she understood. He had found his way back to himself, and by some miracle known only to God himself, back to her.

Long, long moments passed. She realized she hadn't been breathing.

She inhaled, shaky, overwhelmed, eyes filling up. She could barely speak.

"You're okay?” but it was not a question, really.

"I'm okay," and he nodded, smiling.

She exhaled sharply and closed the short distance between them. What could have been - was, in fact, long ago - a desperate hug of relief was this time a desperate kiss, conveying with her lips all that she hadn't told him before but should have, in Islamabad, in D.C., in Berlin, in Paris. Passion…apology…longing…gratitude...love.

When it was over he held her face.

"Quinn, I−"

But his thumb went to her lips. "Shhhhh. Later, Carrie."

She nodded, overwhelmed, tears breaking free.

Words indeed seemed pointless and inadequate as he lifted her, her legs snaking around his waist and she kissed him again, this time with lust and urgency.

He walked them into the cottage, the door ajar, kicking it closed behind them and backing her into the entry wall. All she wanted was to be joined with him, to know this was real, that he was actually here and whole and hers. She ripped off his t-shirt as he fumbled to drop his shorts. Her dress stayed put, for she was naked under it - the day was too hot for any underclothes.

He gently pressed her against the cold stone wall and lowered her down on him. Eyes bearing into hers, watching the possession. He was inside her. Finally.

She moaned with the pleasure and he stopped, needing to pause with the wonder of finally being there, like this. He bought his forehead to hers, tears in his eyes. "Carrie," and he said her name with awe as though confirming that she was there and that this was happening.

And it was overwhelming for them both, a mutual possession, really, that pulled them both under, magnifying emotion, because every so often souls mimic bodies when they come together. And that’s what it was: souls finally in tandem.

Her fingers went to his lips and she whispered, "Quinn, I know. Me too."

He groaned, his head falling to her shoulder giving into all the wonder of finally being here, in her, surrounded by her after so many years and so much tragedy and darkness. When he finally bore into her again it was deep and slow as if memorizing her. Again and again, slow and deep with open mouthed kisses. As she got closer, she clutched his head, keeping his eyes until it was all too much and her head tipped back, body arching and a noise of utter release filled the small hallway. He had paused and held her through it, feeling every contortion, every contraction until she calmed. When he pushed into her one last time, it was with more force but still controlled, and when he came it was so hard and sharp, he found himself buckling, lowering them to the floor as his warmth spread inside her.

He kneeled and she straddled him, still connected, her heated face at his neck, breathing labored.

Minutes past before she raised her head.

“You’re late, Quinn. Really fucking late."

And he laughed, fully laughed. “I got here, didn’t I?”

“I think you just rescued me again.”

“You rescued me, Carrie.”

Finally, _unfrozen_.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you have the time. Good, bad or otherwise! xoxo


End file.
